


the opposite of love

by mjolnirbreaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath, Canon Compliant, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Needles, Post-Season Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:11:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjolnirbreaker/pseuds/mjolnirbreaker
Summary: The weird thing about nights like tonight, though, is that they might be cursed but they’re also the only time Jonathan ever gets to see Steve Harrington without it being unforgivingly awkward. Even if seeing him involves being the one helping him onto a hospital exam table and then standing to the side to provide clumsy emotional support, Jonathan will take it.





	the opposite of love

Apparently Jonathan’s ribs are broken. 

Honestly, the majority of his pain isn’t even in his ribs. His back is what’s really been hurting ever since a metal stool was slammed into it at a speed of like, two thousand miles per hour. And his back is bruised, the doctor told both him and Mom while they stared at his x-rays, but fortunately his spine is uninjured. It’s his ribs. Jonathan can see for himself on the x-rays, which he vaguely thinks of taking to use for a photography project. He’ll have to rest, regulate his breathing to avoid pneumonia, and ice the area regularly. The good news is that he can go home, the doctor says with a slap on Jonathan’s shoulder that’s maybe too forceful considering the fact that he’s here from being savagely beaten. 

But he can’t go home. Nancy is still waiting to be checked, and her little brother who’s much worse off than she is hasn’t even gone yet. Jonathan trudges out of the exam room with his ice pack and settles beside her on the same plastic chair as before. Shouldn’t hospitals invest in more comfortable chairs for their waiting rooms? It doesn’t make sense. 

“What did they say?” Nancy asks, shifting in her seat to face him fully. 

“Broken ribs.” He points vaguely in the area. “Only two of them. Bruising everywhere else. I am miraculously not concussed.”

“Thank God.” Nancy leans in to hug him, which they’ve done like ten times so far tonight, and he reciprocates because she’s his girlfriend and she’s upset and you have to ignore that your ribs are screaming in pain when your girlfriend is upset. When she straightens back up, he catches her glancing in the direction behind him. Jonathan waits the appropriate ten seconds before casually glancing in that direction for himself. 

Robin from freshman year geometry is glaring at them. She never glared at Jonathan back in freshman year geometry--in fact they did a project together in the first few weeks and got along completely fine. She was really good at geometry. But now she’s giving them a look that can definitely be described as a glare and she doesn’t even flinch when Jonathan meets her eyes. If anything, she intensifies her gaze. He looks away. 

His entire body aches. His thoughts are a frenzied, cyclical mess the same way they always are after a monster event. He can’t help but go through the worst of it over and over again (his fingers in El’s leg, a tearful goodbye to his mother which could have easily been the last, Billy Hargrove barreling at Nancy while her bullets uselessly cracked the windshield) and run through the list of names to ensure that everyone was truly, genuinely alright. He decides to run through again. 

Nancy is beside him, aching from her own beating but talking coherently and acting normal. Mike beside her, snapping in annoyance every time Nancy shoves him awake from his constant dozing. His hand is in El’s, but El is mostly in Hopper’s lap while he brushes her hair out of her face and comforts her through the pain of the stitches in her leg. Seated against the other wall, Mom has one arm around Max, who seems too exhausted to cry anymore, and one arm around Will, who’s asleep against her shoulder. Lucas disappeared into an exam room with his parents and Erica ten minutes ago. Dustin was likewise taken by his mother about fifteen minutes ago despite his protests and pleas to stay with Steve. Jonathan forces himself to glance over at Steve and Robin and finds, with some relief, that she’s no longer glaring at him. 

Her left cheek is bruised sickly yellow and beneath that is a dark red, which has settled over her entire face. She’s leaning against Steve, who has matching redness on his face that’s only visible on the areas that aren’t coated in blood and bruising. Jonathan thinks he’d be accustomed to seeing Steve so beaten up, but he never is. This time seems a lot worse. Jonathan can’t believe he hasn’t been called back yet. Just from his spot a few feet away, he can see the labored rise and fall of Steve’s chest and the relentless shaking of his entire body. It _is_ cold in here and he’s decked out in only his little work uniform shorts and tee, but still. Jonathan hopes they call him next, even if it delays going home.

Watching Steve and Robin feels strangely invasive. Jonathan had never seen them interact before tonight, never would’ve even thought to pair them together in his head just based off high school social status and all that shit, but now they’re basically melded together. Robin’s head is on his shoulder, his cheek is pressed against her hair, and they’re holding hands despite having to twist awkwardly to accomplish it. They’re speaking softly to each other and Jonathan knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop. 

He does anyways. Maybe he’ll find out why Robin is glaring at him. 

“Saxophone.” Steve says. That’s what Jonathan _thinks_ he says, but it doesn’t make any sense. 

“Nope.” Robin replies. 

“Uh, fuck. Flute?”

“You already guessed that.”

“Shit. Violin?”

“It’s marching band, dingus. Not orchestra.”

Steve laughs. It sounds strange in the dreary bleakness of the room, piercing the dull hum of the nearby vending machines and the soft, distant murmuring of the women at the desk answering phone calls. “I don’t fucking know instruments I guess.” 

“You definitely fucking don’t.” Robin giggles. 

Their high spirits don’t match their ragged appearances. Jonathan still doesn’t know what happened to them—something with Russians? Whatever happened definitely wasn’t good and their giddiness is definitely going to fade, but Jonathan finds himself envying them. Everyone else is sitting here with dread pooling up to their chins while Steve and Robin use each other as life preservers and ignore the flood. 

They must be dating. Her head _is_ on his shoulder and they _are_ holding hands and Robin _was_ glaring at his ex-girlfriend. It’s a good thing, Jonathan tells himself, a silver lining to be found among this mushroom cloud of a situation. Steve deserves to be happy. Robin does too, probably. She’d scored them a 97 on their geometry project. 

For some reason, though, Jonathan feels weirder the longer he looks. He decides to look away. 

He decides to look at Mom and Will. After everything tonight it’s kind of a miracle that the Byers are still in one piece. He’s going to appreciate that miracle by watching his little brother breathe steadily, finally not the one needing medical attention at the end of this, and his mother stroke Will’s shoulder with her thumb while she doubtlessly appreciates the same thing. Still, while he focuses on his family he finds himself unable to tune out Steve and Robin. It’s not annoying, though. It’s like having his record player on softly while he falls asleep. 

“Oboe? That’s an instrument, right?”

“It is an instrument, but not my instrument.”

“Alright, I’m not giving up but I _am_ getting water. Do you--”

There’s a sudden jarring crash, like the needle on his record player has slipped and startled him out of half-slumber. Will jolts awake right as Jonathan’s eyes leave him and find Steve, who’s now on the floor in front of his chair, trying to push himself up with arms that are much too shaky. With a groan that sounds more irritated than pained, Steve attempts again to push himself to at least rest on his elbows. He gets there with the help of Robin’s hand on his back, but his energy reserves are apparently too dried up from the exertion for any further righting. He groans again and this one sounds more like a whimper. Jonathan gets up.

“Just relax, kid, don’t try to get up.” Hopper uses a voice that’s weirdly gentle for Hopper before reverting back to his usual form and snapping at the gathering hospital staff, “You couldn’t have gotten the kid with the bloody fucking face checked out faster?”

“I’m good.” Steve insists. Robin makes a noise of disbelief that Jonathan mentally echoes. She has her arm stretched across his shoulders, supporting him enough that he could hypothetically stop straining to stay upright. He doesn’t do that, though, because he’s stubborn. He goes back to attempting to sit up completely. 

“Stop that.” Hopper orders at the same time Mom gently requests, 

“Steve, honey, just rest.” She reaches over to brush his hair back. He flinches.

Jonathan is suddenly acutely aware that he’s just sort of hovering. Robin is his girlfriend so she’s obviously going to be the one holding Steve upright and Hopper and Mom are the adults so they’re obviously going to be barking at hospital staff and fussing over his bruises. Jonathan is just sort of...there. He’d approached instinctually and now he just lingers at Steve’s feet and watches helplessly. 

“I feel fine.” Steve keeps saying, nearly begging Hopper and Mom to listen, “I’m okay. Seriously, I’m fine. My leg was just asleep, I’m fine.” 

“Hey, look, it’s okay.” Robin says, putting her hand on his face to manually angle it upwards, towards her. “I’ll be with you, okay? I won’t let anything happen. If they try some Russian shit, I’ll spit on them again.” 

Jonathan doesn’t know what that means, but it brings a weak smile out of Steve so he appreciates it. The smile lasts for about two seconds before his expression reverts back to panic. A nurse tries to wrap a hand around his arm and he wrenches it away. 

“This is an overreaction.” Steve huffs. “Like I said, I don’t need to go before anyone else. Or go at all, actually, because I’ve done this _before_ and I’m _fine_ and I can take care of it _myself.”_

“Hold on,” Hopper pauses the chatter of nurses and murmured overlapping reassurances from Mom and Robin, “you _asked_ to go last?” 

“Because I’m fine! Like, I play sports!”

“Did they drug you and knock you out cold in basketball?” Robin mutters.

 _“What?”_

“Oh my God.”

“Rob!” Steve shoves her weakly. “I was getting there!” 

“You weren’t.” Hopper firmly grabs him with a hand on either of his upper arms, hoisting him upright before any further whining can continue. Steve has no choice but to lean against Hopper because his alternative is the floor, but Robin quickly clicks back into place at his side and he favors her immediately. The fabric of her uniform gets bunched in his fists. Jonathan wonders why he’s still standing here. 

“Parents?” A nurse asks. Hopper and Mom shake their heads. She glances around the room, at the small crowd standing with Steve and the crowd of children and Nancy leaning forward in their chairs to spy, and clicks her tongue. “He can take one person back.”

“Robin.” Steve says, immediate and certain. 

“Not a girlfriend.” The nurse replies, looking at them over the rims of her glasses with clear distaste. Steve tilts his head, confused, and Robin squints, enraged. 

“We _aren’t—“_

“I’ll go.” Jonathan volunteers before he even fully thinks it through. Steve looks over at him, appearing startled that Jonathan has been here the whole time. Robin glares at him with the same intensity as before dialed up by a thousand, which Jonathan wouldn’t have guessed was possible. But he doesn’t _care._ Ideally Steve would get to go with someone who makes him feel safer, but on these nights nothing is _ever_ ideal. Everything is just another layer of bullshit to deal with, another reminder that they almost all died, another presumptuous outsider who has no idea trying to assert themselves in with their stupid rules. Jonathan knows there’s no use fighting it because until the sun rises, the universe will work against every person standing in this waiting room because they are inevitably cursed on nights like these. And Steve’s legs are shaking. “Seriously, I’ll go with you. I know I’m not Robin but if that’s the rule, let’s just get it over with.” 

“How heroic.” Robin mutters. 

“I think it’s a good idea.” Mom interjects. Jonathan is overcome with an urge to shoot Robin a look that says _see?_ the same way he used to when Mom ruled in his favor over Will when they would fight over the television remote. He suppresses it. 

“No offence, but none of you even know what _happened.”_ Robin implores, no longer glaring. Now she’s just looking at them with wide-eyed desperation and Jonathan feels like an asshole for being petty about it. She’s just scared. She has a giant yellow bruise on her cheek and newfound knowledge of both monsters _and_ evil Russians, and she’s right. Jonathan has no idea what happened to them. No one in the room does, actually. She’s probably earned the right to glare at him and go into the room with Steve. 

But the curse. Jonathan cautiously starts making his way toward them, approaching the same way he’d approach a startled stray cat. 

“I know.” He agrees. “It sucks, I know. You _should_ be the one to go with him.”

“Thanks for the validation.” Robin bites. 

“Rob.” Steve is now back to somewhat leaning on Hopper for the extra support, his voice coming out slightly breathless. “He’s not being condescending he’s just—he’s trying to help. It’s okay.” 

Robin looks at Steve and Steve looks at Robin and they both look miserable. They must be telepathically communicating because there’s silence, just their eyes locked. Hopper shifts from one foot to the other and looks at Mom, also utilizing telepathy to probably complain about children. 

“This is bullshit.” Robin declares finally, abruptly gesturing for Jonathan to take the last few steps and join her at Steve’s side. They have to awkwardly shuffle past each other to get Steve’s arm slung over his shoulders rather than her’s. The fabric on Robin’s uniform is still stiffly bunched into crinkled shapes from Steve’s fists. Steve’s arm feels foreign and too warm and defined by muscle. Jonathan feels strangely embarrassed now that his plan is enacted and everyone, including Mom, including _Nancy,_ is staring at him with his arm around Steve’s waist. 

“I’ll be right back.” Steve tells Robin, both of them pretending his voice didn’t just shake. “And I’m gonna guess that instrument.” 

“I’ll give you a freebie: it’s not the trombone.”

“Good. The trombone? Ew.” 

Jonathan gets one last half-hearted glare from Robin before the nurse expedites the situation and starts leading them through the door he’s already walked through and down the hallway he’s already seen. He can feel Steve gripping the back of his shirt.

He should probably say something comforting. Steve is obviously unhappy, probably because he’s beaten up and shaky and...running a fever? For some reason? He feels extremely warm and Jonathan can’t figure out why. Jonathan is acutely aware that he’s replacing Steve’s literal girlfriend and that he’s already replaced Steve as Nancy’s literal boyfriend, so honestly he’s rethinking this decision pretty much immediately. He’s probably the last person Steve wants with him.

“Thanks, man.” Steve says suddenly. He sounds tired but fully genuine. “Sorry I’m dragging you away from Nancy. And sorry I woke Will up.” 

“Will is a light sleeper already.” He decides not to acknowledge the Nancy part because he has no clue how to navigate _that_ minefield. It’s the same reason he’s avoided Scoops Ahoy for the past month when Will drags him to the mall. Admittedly, he’s just been avoiding Steve in general because he’s been afraid of the moment their eyes meet and they both mentally accept that there’s a line drawn between them, forever. A line named Nancy. 

And it sucks, because Jonathan doesn’t hate Steve anymore. He definitely did once, but now Steve is just one of the handful of people who know the truth. The arrogance that once dripped from his entire being is dried up, replaced by a strange compulsion to look after Will and his friends. Jonathan could honestly see him and Steve being friends. But Nancy was Steve’s entire world and Jonathan can still vividly remember the Halloween party, when Steve’s eyes had been shining under the front porch light of Carol Connoway’s house while he pushed out an excuse for leaving and a request that Jonathan take Nancy home. It had been so sharply jarring to see him cry. Steve fucking Harrington _crying._ He had still been thinking about it even as he pulled the covers over Nancy and brushed her hair from her face. 

The weird thing about nights like tonight, though, is that they might be cursed but they’re also the only time Jonathan ever gets to see Steve Harrington without it being unforgivingly awkward. Even if seeing him involves being the one helping him onto a hospital exam table and then standing to the side to provide clumsy emotional support, Jonathan will take it. The crisis doesn’t absolve them of _all_ awkwardness, but it gives them something to focus on other than their history. 

Jonathan is delegated to sitting on a rolling stool, an exact replica of the one that was smashed into his spinal cord earlier, and watch the nurse flit around Steve and check the basics. Steve’s expression is blank, like he’s not mentally in the room at all, but his fists are still clenched. The nurse reaches in the general vicinity of his head and he immediately jerks away, leaning so far off the table that Jonathan is surprised he doesn’t fall off. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” He tentatively puts a hand against Steve’s shoulder, relieved when he doesn’t flinch away from that. “She’s just--”

“Taking your temperature.” The nurse supplies. 

“She’s just taking your temperature.”

Steve lets the anxiety sit on his face for approximately two seconds before covering it with a laugh, albeit an uneasy one, and a charming grin in the nurse’s direction. Jonathan watches Steve slip on the exterior of cool, calm, collected King Steve like it’s his lettermans jacket. Except this lettermans jacket doesn’t fit quite right, because he’s still clenching his fists. 

“You probably hear a lot of stupid jokes.” Steve says to the nurse while she sticks the thermometer in his ear and he clenches his fists tighter. His eyes find Jonathan. “Like, don’t bother checking, I already know I’m hot.”

“You had that prepared suspiciously fast.” Jonathan observes. 

“I could do much better if I had more time.”

The digital beep of the thermometer interrupts any more chances for banter and the slight ease that was creeping onto Steve’s face disappears, but Jonathan has a new strategy now. Steve wants to be distracted. Clearly he’s not comfortable here for whatever reason (being afraid of doctors or hospitals isn’t that uncommon but was he putting up this much of a fight last year?) and Jonathan just has to keep the distractions coming. He can do that. 

“101.3 so we’ve definitely got to work on that.” The nurse notes, marking it down on the clipboard. 

“Robin seems cool.” Jonathan offers. Steve looks back over at him. 

“She is cool. She’s like, maybe the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

Wow. Something tells Jonathan that this is Steve’s honest assessment and not just a dramatic overstatement fueled by infatuation. He’s bounced back from Nancy extremely fast. Jonathan’s mind dregs up everything from the last few days, from repeated back and forth to losing the internship to _Oliver Twist._ For a fraction of a second, Jonathan thinks maybe he understands how Steve moved on so quickly. Then he wakes up and remembers that Nancy Wheeler is in the waiting room right now, in the chair beside his, waiting for him. His _girlfriend._

“That’s awesome, man.”

“She knows four languages.” Steve adds while the nurse wraps the blood pressure monitor around his upper arm. His words are coming out a little too fast. “She learns them like, super fucking fast. Seriously she learned Russian in like a day or two.”

“Yeah I think she was in French club? I took their picture for yearbook.”

“You probably had to take a ton of pictures of Robin. She also does soccer and band and theater and probably like, mixed martial arts or some shit. Like, I sort of wish I had gone to plays and stuff now. I always thought they would be corny but she’s like, actually really funny.”

The distraction plan seems to be working. Steve’s knuckles aren’t currently white, except for when he squeezes the stress ball in his hand while the bag compresses on his arm. His posture is still tense, but slightly less so. He’s allowing his body to rest more on the center of the table instead of the very edge. Jonathan should just keep this up, keep asking questions about Robin, and soon enough it’ll all be over. That’s what’s best for Steve. 

But Jonathan doesn’t like talking about Robin. Not because of anything against her, just...the look on Steve’s face while he talks about her. Complete and total admiration. And there’s nothing _wrong_ with that, in fact it’s a good thing. Jonathan has actively avoided Steve for months because of what he’s always assumed was guilt--guilt that he and Nancy being together was keeping Steve from being happy. And now he _is_ happy, so the problem should be resolved. They should all be able to coexist peacefully. Steve and Robin. Jonathan and Nancy.

It’s just that the look on his face is so foreign. He’s never seen it on Steve before, but more troubling, he’s never seen it on Nancy before. 

“You’d sit through Shakespeare for her?” Jonathan forces himself to keep it up. “That’s true love.”

The admiration is replaced by something new. Steve’s eyebrows pull together and he tilts his head, just like before in the waiting room. Confusion.

“We aren’t dating.” Steve clarifies. “I do love her, but I mean, we’re not dating. She’s definitely not into me and I--I _thought_ I was into her but now I just think that--God, this is going to sound pathetic but, I just think I was excited to have a friend. You know? Like it’s easy to confuse it, especially when the world is about to end and you’re already kind of stupid.”

Jonathan glances at the nurse uneasily. She’s too busy filling an I.V. bag to notice the world ending comment, or perhaps she doesn’t assume that it means there was a giant monster running around Hawkins less than two hours ago. He looks back at Steve, who gets a pass for accidentally breaking the agreement on not mentioning the truth in the slightest because of the 101.3 fever and possible head trauma. 

“You aren’t stupid.” He says. “It’s easy for anyone to get confused.”

“Right! Honestly like, you grow up reading Playboys and getting your first kiss at like, twelve. No one ever tells you how to actually know you’re in love. No one tells you that there’s like, different kinds of love. Different kinds of people to love.” Steve sighs and leans his head back. It must hurt, because he picks it back up with a grimace. “Talk about fucking Shakespeare, huh?”

Jonathan chuckles. He definitely didn’t grow up reading Playboys and getting his first kiss at twelve, but he still knows what Steve means. His parents taught him that love wasn’t a guarantee, even if two people are so certain at first. Mom told him that you have to find someone who you can be with on any day of the week, whether it’s sunny or raining, autumn or summer. But when it’s sunny, it’s hard to envision what’ll happen when there’s rain. And then it’s kind of too late because you’re just standing there without an umbrella, dripping wet like some asshole who didn’t check the forecast. In the autumn someone can listen and nod and rub their thumb against the back of your hand, but in the summer they can shake their head and roll their eyes and call you Oliver Twist. 

And different kinds of love he learned from Will, who talked more about Mike Wheeler than any girl throughout all of elementary and middle school. Jonathan wonders if that’s what Steve means.

“Alright, honey.” The nurse rolls her little metal cart over to Steve’s side, the full I.V. bag in her hands. She hooks it to the stand that was already waiting. Steve glances up at it, uncomprehending, and then back at her. “We’ve definitely got a fever and dehydration to work on before we can get any stitches in.”

“Okay.” Steve says, either remarkably calmer than before or still not getting it. 

“So I’m going to put you on an I.V. and hopefully--”

The moment she holds up the needle it becomes abundantly clear that he just wasn’t getting it, because Steve immediately retreats to the edge of the table again and adamantly shakes his head in a perpetual refusal, emphasized by a repeated chant of, “Nope. Nope. Nope.”

“Steve, it’s okay.” 

“No fucking way. No needles.”

Jonathan glances up at the nurse. “Does he have to? There’s no way around it?”

“The cop said he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in over twenty-four hours that wasn’t thrown up afterwards. He already passed out once--”

“Uh, I didn’t pass out.” Steve interjects. “I lost my balance. There’s a difference.”

The nurse ignores him. “He has to.”

Steve looks up at him, his wide eyes shining just like they were under Carol’s front porch light. Oh fuck. “Jonathan, seriously. I really can’t. After tonight I--I just--I _can’t.”_

Jonathan rolls the stool closer until the metal leg clicks against the table. Steve accepts the newfound closeness eagerly, blindly reaching a shaking hand out. Jonathan allows it to settle on his upper arm and ignores the way it presses against a forming bruise. 

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise. It’s going to hurt for like two seconds and then you won’t even feel it, okay? Will had to get shots like all the time last year.”

“Yeah well he’s _Will,_ okay, that kid is like fucking indestructible.”

“Nothing is going to happen. It’s gonna make you feel better, not worse.”

“Yeah but it’s a fucking _needle,_ Jonathan.”

So Steve has a surprising phobia. But this....doesn’t make sense. Jonathan was forced to take several photos of Steve throughout high school, hating pretty much every single one of them afterwards because he always turned out looking perfect no matter how sweaty he was during a basketball game or how bored he was during the assembly on abstinence. Jonathan remembers one photo in particular because he had looked unfairly good, truly just appallingly charming.

The blood drive in Sophomore year. It was a big enough event to end up in the school newspaper and Jonathan was sent to weave around the chairs set up in the gym and snap pictures of his classmates nervously squirming while they waited and regretted signing up. Jonathan snapped a photo of Steve because he had been the only one sitting still. It turned out great, as usual. His head had been tilted up while he laughed with the medic, his smile wide and his hair swept back just enough that you could see the genuine sparkle in his eyes. He’d been completely fine with the needle stuck in his arm then, and now he’s shaking and hyperventilating and grabbing Jonathan’s arm for dear life. 

Something between then and now has him terrified. If Jonathan has to guess, he’s going to say this phobia developed tonight. Courtesy of the Russians. 

“Here, just,” Jonathan gently pries Steve’s hand off his upper arm and offers his own, palm up, “hold my hand.”

“Fuck.” Steve breathes, grabbing it. His palm is sweaty and his grip is so tight that Jonathan can feel his bones bending somewhat, but it still makes Jonathan’s stomach drop like he’s just gone over the hill of a rollercoaster. The nurse picks up the needle and Steve twists his head, pressing his forehead to Jonathan’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“It’s gonna be okay.”

 _Different kinds of love. Different people_ to _love._

“Hey, I know it’s cheating, but,” Jonathan keeps his voice even, like there isn’t a needle approaching Steve’s arm, “I know what instrument Robin plays.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s voice is distant from its usual steadiness and slightly muffled against Jonathan’s shirt.

“Yeah. Like you said, I’ve had to take a lot of pictures of her. It starts with a C.”

“C? I don’t know, uh. Cymbals?”

“Nope. Wildly good guess, though, jeez.” Jonathan feels Steve’s hand tighten to the point of possibly snapping his bones when the nurse starts prodding his arm, finding her vein. Steve’s breathing picks up again and Jonathan continues, “Come on, you’re not giving up after one try. Starts with C, ends with T.”

“Cat.”

“Another astonishing guess, but no.”

Jonathan tries not to give any indication, but Steve’s tension is melting into him and he nearly holds his breath when the nurse carefully injects the needle. Steve presses his face further against him, his hair grazing Jonathan’s chin and his forehead warming his neck. And then, all at once, Steve relaxes when he realizes it’s over. His breathing gradually calms and he slowly, cautiously pulls away and blinks in the overhead light at the I.V. in his arm. 

“Clarinet.” He says, still out of breath but no longer as shaky. 

“You got it.” 

Jonathan figures they’ve got an hour or so before Steve has to get his stitches and his x-rays and the whole process will start over. He needs to think of a new guessing game for the stitches, hopefully one that lasts longer. But for now Steve is laying back against the reclined table, actively avoiding looking at his arm any further, no longer white-knuckling. He’s still not calm by any means and every time the nurse pops into the room he flinches, goes pale for a few seconds, but it’s better than before. 

His hand is still in Jonathan’s after twenty minutes of listless conversation and the I.V. bag dripping. He seems content to look at Jonathan the entire time, except for when Hopper pokes his head into the room to ask how things are going and politely ignore that their hands are interwoven. He also looks away once to yawn and rub at his eyes with the hand not currently connected to the I.V. stand. 

“You can sleep here, you know.” Jonathan tells him. “Resting is like, part of hospitals.”

“Wouldn’t you be bored without my stimulating conversation?”

“Definitely. I’ll probably fall asleep too. No harm done.”

Steve laughs and obediently leans his head back. He closes his eyes and Jonathan watches his lashes flutter over his bruised skin, probably too faint to hurt. 

“Wake me up if they bring out another fucking needle.” Steve mumbles. His face is tilted toward Jonathan and his hand, still holding on, relaxes as he gradually drifts. It might be the last opportunity Steve has to get adequate sleep for awhile, because from here on he’ll have the pains of stitches and bruising and whatever the fuck else without drugs helping him through it. 

Jonathan always has nightmares for three weeks straight after nights like these. Sometimes the curse leaks over onto other days, other nights, other months, and Jonathan starts feeling like everything is defined by these stupid fucking monsters and their obsession with people he cares about. 

Tonight, though he’s not sure it’ll be like that. Maybe the nightmares won’t last as long. Maybe the monsters won’t take up so much of his thoughts and leave his paranoid, reaching for makeshift weapons in the middle of the night. 

Steve Harrington is holding his hand. Clearly the curse is weakening.

**Author's Note:**

> no offense to jancy but like....the chemistry wasnt there for me this season!!! and ive always been into the concept of stonathan and i love comfort situations so here we are. title is from "stubborn love" by the lumineers! thank u to my guardian angel em for reading this and telling me what exam tables are called. i was so confused. follow em on tumblr @ahoylesbians and on here @floralathena. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr @bi-harrington !! ill take prompts for season 3 im desperate for ideas!!


End file.
